I was really sad most of the winter, though the fact of the matter was, I hadn't lost anything. I came in from the rain each night looking more and more like a grownup, imbued with the terrible wisdom that I couldn't have everything, and by everything I mean the one thing: I mean the boy.
In lieu of sleep I stayed up writing cryptic emails to my old favorites: "Will I ever get too old for this? Will anything ever work for me? Will the pieces ever fall into place, mamma?"
To no avail, to no reply.
The scar tissue on the heart is something that gets you tougher and tougher, and hurts only less frequently as time wears on. How long does that last?

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